


Book Covers

by Shadowobsidian



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Angst, Bonding over coffee and obscure authors, Bookstore Owner Derek Hale, Bookworm Derek, Bookworm Stiles, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale Needs a Hug, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek in glasses, F/M, First Meetings, Gang Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by CustomerServiceWolf, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Redemption, Shady Past, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug, Tattooed Derek, Violence, WIP, Warning: Gerard Argent, Warning: Kate Argent, Will be Explicit in Later Chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-01-01 08:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18332258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowobsidian/pseuds/Shadowobsidian
Summary: Derek owns and runs his little bookstore and is content with his life. Then Stiles appears and makes him spill his tea.





	1. Mornings

“Thank you, and come again!” Derek smiled as he watched the last customer head for the exit.

But as soon as the soft jingle of the bell above the door faded, and Mrs. Glottleman was safely out of sight, his smile dropped, as well as his shoulders and head as he heaved a deep sigh.

Derek Hale, owner and main employee of The Book Den, has not had a good morning.

It had started off alright, with him rising with the sun for his morning run, followed by a shower and light breakfast of oatmeal and fruit as he went over some paperwork for his little book store until it was time to head out for the day.

He watched his little town start waking up as he meandered the few blocks between his house and his storefront, stopping off in the coffee shop next door for his daily cup of tea and check in with Boyd, Erica, and Isaac; baker, barista, and busser respectively.

It was a well kept secret that The Book Den and the coffee shop, called New Moon Grind, were both owned by Hale, even connected by their break-rooms, hidden from the public eye. Almost five years had passed since they’d found each other, helped pick up the shattered pieces of their lives and left Beacon Hills, and the nightmares it held for all of them, in the rear view of Derek’s Camero. They found family in each other during those long weeks and months on the road, ditching the cramped sports car for a camper van and just…living the nomadic life, away from fear and pain and memories. When they finally got sick of the road and each other’s constant company, they found themselves in Aspen Valley, barely even a dot on the map in the border between the Midwest and the South. It was a sleepy little town, but they had all fallen in love with it.

Just as Derek had fallen in love with his cozy house, the used bookstore down the road, and watching his family strengthen and grow in safety.

And when Mr. Toldaris decided he wanted to sell his store and move to Arizona, well…it had felt too much like fate for Derek to pass up.

And when the kids came to him with an idea for the empty store space next door, well…the rest is history.

But it has been a very bad morning.

Pushing his glasses up his forehead, Derek rubbed his eyes until he saw spots and huffed out another sigh. His tea was probably cold now.

He’d barely been able to take the first sip as he strode out of the back of the shop, having come through the connecting door from New Moon, when he saw Mr. Harrit outside the front door, tapping his foot and glaring at his watch. Setting his cup aside, Derek had headed for the door, unlocking it and opening it a crack. “Good morning,” he said, smiling. “We’re not open just yet, but if you just give me—“

“This’ll only take five minutes,” Mr. Harrit snapped as he shoved his way inside and disappeared into the stacks and aisles, “and why is it so bloody dark in here?!”

And from there he’d had to deal with four people asking after the new book in a series he couldn’t care less about, and had only been _announced_ , not _released_ , the day before, listening to Ms. Ramel insult his taste in best sellers (“Their dust-covers are just so gaudy! You really should just take them off. Go for a minimalist look.”), had two unattended children breathing down his neck as he re-shelved all the books they’d pulled onto the floor in the kid’s section (“We were trying to build a castle, but it kept falling down.”), explained why he couldn’t take a copy of The Pelican Brief that had no front or back cover and was held together with twine (“What do you mean it’s too damaged?! It’s just been well loved! Get me the manager!”), and then helped Mrs. Glottleman buy four hard-covers…that she paid for in coins.

Forcing his shoulders to relax from their spot up near his ears, Derek smoothed his hands down the front of his maroon Henley, then picked up his cup of tea, humming a happy sound when he felt the lingering heat through the cardboard. Guess Erica made it extra hot this morning. She always seemed to know when it would a busy day. Lifting the cup to his lips, he started to sip.

Until a shriek from the stacks had him startling so badly he crushed the cup and doused himself, and everything behind the register, in Oolong.

Growling deep in his throat, he gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, wanting nothing more that to howl in frustration. He’d even gotten it on his glasses, damnit.

Plucking his shirt away from his chest and setting his glasses aside to be cleaned later, he was so focused on trying to manage the mess he’d made that he didn’t see the tower of books heading his way, held aloft in two thin, mole-speckled arms, until it was dropped on his counter with an echoing **thud.**

Whipping his head around, Derek watched as two long fingered hands flailed around the stack, straightening it and preventing it from toppling behind the counter or onto the shop floor. He reached out to help, but snapped back when the owner of said hands finally popped out from behind the pages and spines, a nearly manic grin on his face.

“Dude!” the grinning man yelled, yes yelled, in the middle of his shop, “you have no idea how fucking stoked I am to have found these! I swear I’ve been looking for this guy’s work for. Ever. Do you even know how obscure his books are? You can’t even find them online, and believe me, I’ve tried. So hard, I tried. But here they are! Even a first edition and two of his out of prints! Just sitting there and waiting for me to find them and give them the loving home they deserve as underappreciated works of absolute genius and art. Man, I could kiss you for having this stuff, no joke, no lie, no homo. But also homo because, _hi_ , you’re hot. Do you take plastic?”

Derek blinked. Blinked again. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Counted to ten. Then to twenty. Took a deep breath. And plastered on his customer service smile. “Of course, sir. Debit or credit?”

“Oh, shit. Uh…debit?” he started pawing for his wallet, nearly spinning in a circle as he attempted to dig it out of his back pocket. “I think? It’s actually my dad’s card, but he lent it to me for grocery shopping since it’s his turn this week, and he said I could get myself something if I saw something I liked, like he’d handed me fifty cents to go down to the corner store or something else ye olden timey like that, and I saw the coffee shop and figured I’d grab a drink there and then I saw this place and I just couldn’t resist, and did you know that they have a thing called a DeadEye over there? It’s like, three shots of espresso in coffee and it’s the new love of my life and I’m gonna marry it and have it's little coffee bean babies. Here’s the card. It’s debit.”

Derek blinked. Blinked again. That…explained so much. But instead of saying so, he kept smiling, nodded his head, swiped the card, and started bagging up books, wincing slightly at the feeling of wet, rapidly cooling clothing.

“So, uh, hey, if you get any more of this guy’s stuff can you hold it for me? Or is that, like, not allowed?”

“I can send you an email or call you if any more books by this author are brought in,” Derek said as he put the stack of individually bagged books in one of the special reinforced paper bags he splurged on specifically for times like this (“You bags keep on ripping and all of my books are getting so dirty! I demand a refund!”). “But I can’t keep anything off the shelves in case someone else comes and is looking for them.”

“Alright. Cool. So…can I give my email address and stuff? I can’t lose the chance to get more of these books. I’d just die.”

“Of course,” Derek forced his smile to lock into place as he handed over a blank information card and a pen. “Just fill in the blanks and I’ll be right back.”

He was slightly terrified of leaving the highly caffeinated, very loud individual alone and unsupervised, but he needed to at least change his shirt and grab a dry rag or two, so Derek slipped into the back and to the shared break room. “Boyd, I’m stealing your extra shirt!” he called through the coffee shop’s kitchen, getting a distracted wave in acknowledgement. “And Erica,” he added as he stripped off his soaked shirt and pulled on the slightly baggier blue long sleeve, poking his head out of the back to catch the blonde’s eye, “if that kid who ordered the DeadEye comes back to get another one, don’t let him. I beg you. And can you please make me another tea? Mine met with an untimely demise.”

“Sure thing, bossman!” she called back, snapping a jaunty salute as she worked the espresso machine.

Rolling his eyes and smiling fondly at his little ragtag family, Derek made his way back to his shop, both relieved and a bit disappointed (what?) to see the young man had left.

Snagging his dust rag, he went to work trying to minimize the damage his tea had done to his invoices and reports and all the books he needed to price and shelve. As he swiped and dabbed and dried, his eyes found the information card, now filled out, sitting by the register.

Picking it up, he scanned it as he continued to absently wipe the counter. _Stiles?_ What the hell kind of name is that? And _nerdisthenewsexy@yahoo.com_? Does anyone even use Yahoo anymore?

After confirming all the info, as well as a few more requests to look out for some more largely unknown and underappreciated (In Derek’s opinion) authors, Derek flipped the card through his fingers as he brought it over to the little Rolodex he kept for such things.

A flash of writing on the back caught his eye before he could slot it into place, though, so he flipped it and read:

_Sorry about the mess my scream of happiness caused you to make. My bad. I’ll pay you back for any damages to the books, okay? And your dry cleaning, if you need it. Just let me know. Sorry again._

 

_Stiles._

 

_P.S. I really do think you’re hot._

 

 

 

_P.P.S Next time you see me, pretend you don’t know that I think you’re hot. Please?_

 

The bark of laughter startled not only Derek, who had made it, but also the purple haired teen that had just pushed through the doors. Quickly putting the card away, he welcomed the youth in, turned on the customer service auto-pilot to help the girl find the perfect book of depressing poetry to inspire her for her poetry slam next week, and let his mind drift back to a manic smile, flashing gold eyes, and a loud passion for books.

 

Maybe this morning wasn’t so bad after all.

 


	2. Afternoons

The next afternoon found Derek hip deep in inventory, and loving every second of it. He loved seeing all the books, new and old, laid out before him like a garden of paper and ink. He loved the latent potential of any one of them to become a new favorite, or a turning point in someone's life, or reigniting that buried adoration of the written word, or helping an old memory resurface and shine like new...plus they smelled really good, okay?

He very quickly lost himself in the sorting, data imputing, and stickering that was stock and shelving, reluctantly pulling away only when a customer needed help ("Do you have this book, but, like, not so much of it?" "Cliff notes?" "No, it's not called 'cliff notes'. _Nevermind_. Idiot."), a customer was checking out ("I need these gift-wrapped. _Individually_. For a _boy_. No, that ribbon is pink. It's for a _boy_."), or to take sips of his rapidly cooling latte.

The sun was bright, the shop was warm and quiet, and he was in a very good mood. He brought one of the older, leather-bound books up to his face and inhaled deeply.

And promptly smacked himself in the face with it when his door flung open, the bell jangling and almost loosing itself from it's perch, and made him jerk in surprise.

"Hi, hot book dude, sorry about the door, can't talk; gotta see if you have it; I _swear_ if you don't have it I'm gonna cry and lose my will to live and have to drown my sorrows in coffee and espresso and..." The voice dwindled down to distracted mutterings as Stiles, yes, Stiles, blew through the door and made his way towards the back of the store, where Derek kept the older books away from the direct sunlight of the front windows.

Rubbing his now very sore nose, Derek set aside the book and very carefully set his latte very far away from the register counter. Just in case.

He tried to get back into the peaceful flow of stocking, but the muttering, shuffling, and the occasional **thud** of a book being slammed closed made his shoulders tense and brow furrow. If that kid was roughing up his first editions...

Stepping from behind the counter with an armful of books ready to shelve (that they were all older ones that needed to go to the back of the shop was purely _coincidence_ , okay?), he shuffled through the aisles, blinking slowly as the natural light dimmed and was replaced by a gentle artificial glow and the smell of leather and old paper saturated the air.

The muttering grew louder as Derek turned down the last row of books nestled against the back wall, and he found Stiles, sitting cross-legged and surrounded by no less than three stacks of books, nose buried in another.

Derek blinked. Blinked again. How had he even...whatever. "You know I have a list of all the books I have in stock, right?" he said. starting to put the books in his arms in their proper places.

"Gah!" the book Stiles was hold went flying, he tipped backwards, his arms flailed as he tried to regain his balance and catch the book at the same time, and a few seconds later he was buried in no less than three stacks worth of books.

Derek slowly raised an eyebrow, fighting a grin.

"Yeah, don't do that," Stiles motioned towards his face, almost smacking himself in the nose. "That...eyebrow...thing. It makes your face look less murder-y and more sexy than usual, especially with those glasses--when did those happen--, and I need to keep at least a little bit of my dignity."

Derek raised his other brow.

"Yeah, okay, tell your eyebrows to shut up now. Any chance you'll help me up?"

"Any chance you'll put all those books back?" Derek shot back, still shelving.

"Dude," Stiles scoffed, "I may be as ADOS as they come, but I'm not a barbarian. I was gonna put everything back."

"...the hell is ADOS? And don't call me dude."

Stiles flapped his hand and shrugged. "ADOS. Y'know...attention defice--Oooh, shiny! Like that. Y'know?"

Derek raised his eyebrow.

"Oh for--just, help me up, will you? So I can put your precious books back and get back to what I was doing."

Derek set aside his small stack and reached down to the younger man. "And what were you doing? Besides abusing my out-of-prints and muttering like a crazy person?"

Stiles groaned as Derek helped yank him to his feet, books sliding off him to land like drunken birds across the floor, "You could hear that? Of course you could hear that. I am never redeeming myself in your eyes, am I? But anyway, I was just looking for a book, saw another book, it referenced a different book, and you had, like, all of them, and I was curious, then next thing you know it was all..." he motioned to the scattered books with a wide sweep of his arms before dropping them to his sides. "But I will," he bent and snagged two of them closest to his feet, "take these two. Can you hold them at the register for me while I clean up my mess?"

Derek snapped his eyes back to Stiles' face, where they had been the whole time and not looking at the flash of skin above his jeans where his shirt had ridden up, and certainly not a few inches lower, taking in the extremely nice fit of the other man's pants. Nope. Totally on his face. The whole time.

"Of course, sir," he said, yanking his customer service face on like a mask, trying to hide his gawking (because, _what_? When did that happen?), and holding his hands out to take the books. "I'll have these ready and waiting for you up at the counter. Please let me know if you have any questions of if you'd like me to check our inventory for something in particular."

"Thanks, man," Stiles winked and shot off some finger guns before turning and starting to gather the other books. "Bro. Sir. Mr. Bookstore guy."

"Derek."

"Huh?"

Derek swallowed, hard, when Stiles shifted to look at him while still bent over, looking at him like an old pin-up postcard; books in arm, reaching for another, brown hair slightly mussed, golden eyes bright and smiling. All he was missing was the short skirt and the back seam nylons and the--

"My name's Derek," he finally got out, voice rough and deep. He cleared his throat. "Derek Hale."

Stiles smiled an upside down smile. "Cool. Nice to meet you, Derek."

Derek stared for an embarrassingly long second as Stiles started cleaning again, before shaking himself loose and heading back to the front of the store. Setting the two books by the register, he shoved both hands under his glasses and internally groaned. Okay, so the guy was cute, in a weird, 'cat with the zoomies' kind of way. So he was into old books and knew about some of Derek's favorite authors (he saw a few of their titles in the chaos Stiles' had created). So he had a really nice butt and pretty eyes and elegant hands and-- _shit_.

Derek was in trouble.

But before he could dwell on it, the door bell jingled, heralding the arrival of Mrs. Yettle and her yippy little purse dog.

Shoving his thoughts and issues (so many _issues_ ) to the back of his brain, Derek turned and smiled as politely as he could. "Good afternoon! How can I help you?"

"Well, I was looking for this book. I heard about it on the radio, oh...I think it was last week. Thursday! That's it! Oh, what was it about...something about the color blue and how it triggers things in..."

He tightened up his smile and nodded along.

He couldn't wait to get back to inventory.

Twenty minutes later, he was still nodding along as he rang up Mrs. Yettles purchase (literally called _Blue: The History of a Color_ , and why the _hell_ did he have that in stock?), bagged it, slipped a milk-bone to tiny Princess, walked her to the door, and bid her nice evening, before closing it with a **click** and sigh that seemed to come from his toes. He pressed his head against the warm wood and closed his eyes.

A chuckle from behind him had them snapping open again.

Stiles.

_Shit._

He'd forgotten he was in the shop.

Straightening up, he shoved his customer service smile back in place and turned, finding the man leaning next to the register. "Thank you for your patience," he said as he stepped back behind the counter and rang up the two book sitting there. "Cash or credit this evening?"

Stiles wrinkled his nose and tilted his head, like he smelled something off as he handed his card over for Derek to swipe. "Du-I mean, Derek, stop. Please. That retail smile is horrifying, even on your face. And that voice...blugh," he gave an exaggerated shudder. "Just...relax. Don't--don't hurt yourself, or...whatever. I don't know. You just look very 'Uncanny Valley' right now and it frightens me."

Derek blinked. Blinked again.

Forced his shoulders to come down and flexed his jaw.

Let the whole thing drop and just... "Thank you," he said, honestly and earnestly as he passed off the books.

Stiles blinked. Blinked again.

Then threw back his head and laughed (and oh _hell,_ he's _hot_ ). "Any time," he gasped out between giggles. "I've worked retail, too. I get it. I so get it." Still smiling, he held out his hand. "I'm Stiles. You've seen me at my worst, so here's hoping I can show you my best sometime?"

Derek didn't even try to fight the real smile tugging at his lips as he took the proffered hand and squeezed. "Here's hoping."


	3. Lunch Breaks

In the days that followed, Stiles became something of a fixture at The Book Den, much to Derek's dismay (and delight). The young man could often be found wandering the aisles, pulling this or that book down to peruse the summary or make a comment on the author's photo. Or curled up on the bench in front of the windows by the door, nose buried in a book about the history of the semicolon (It's called _Port-Royal Grammar_ and it's _philosophy_ , you philistine."). Or wrapped up in a debate about the merits of hard-cover versus paperback with crotchety Mr. Simmons ("You have to admit that a hard-covers are superior at least in the fact that there's less chance of them falling apart in your bags or something." "In a pig's eye, I do!")

 People had even started mistaking him for an employee of the shop, asking him for recommendations, voicing complaints, and there was even a memorable encounter where a portly man with spiked hair and a pointy face asked if they sold socks, and then demanding why they didn't when answered in the very confused negative. Derek had gone to the dollar store the next morning, picked up a few packs of animal patterned socks and displayed them by the register with a sign saying 'Stupid question socks, $10'. Stiles had laughed so hard he snorted when he came in an saw them.

Derek had toyed with the idea of offering Stiles' a job, as it was rare to find someone as knowledgeable and passionate about books as the lanky youth, but Stiles said that he was really just trying to focus on his online college courses and his dad. Derek learned that he and his father, Officer Noah Stilinski (and wasn't that a terrifying thought; pining after the son of a police officer. Who had a _gun_. And _bullets_ ), had moved down from a larger city a few hours away when working on the force there had become too stressful and was jeopardizing the elder Stilinski's health.

Stiles admitted to more or less badgering the higher-ups at his dad's old office to insist on the transfer, guilting and bribing them to put the paperwork through and strong arm Officer Noah into moving to the quiet berg a few months prior. He confessed that he did feel a bit bad about it, but watching his dad regain his health and peace of mind alleviated a great deal of it, and he regretted nothing, and if Derek even thought about telling on him, he'd rain a vengeance upon his head with the force of a thousand fiery suns. Derek had vowed very seriously to keep his distance from Stilinski, silently including Stiles in the promise as well.

But Stiles was making it very difficult to keep his resolve, being so bubbly, and interesting, and even making friends with the kids in the coffee shop when he stopped over for a drink and a snack (often bringing Derek something as well, stating he didn't think Derek was eating enough in a day); encouraging Isaac talk more and straighten his shoulders, complimenting Erica on her bold and daring looks, and gushing about Boyd's baking with such earnest enthusiasm that the stoic man actually blushed. God _damnit_.

And the _flirting_.

Stiles had quickly given up on trying to hide his enjoyment of Derek's face and figure, deciding to fully embrace it instead.

God help him.

He was so fucking cute when he leaned against the counter, attempted to raise his brow, and asking it what could only be assumed was his version of a sultry voice, "Come here often?", and then have his elbow slip and he'll topple backwards with a yelp. Or when he started reading aloud from a book of poetry, gesticulating broadly and overacting on the subjects of passion and adoration and being hyper focused on the color of someone's eyes, only to realize that there was someone else in the shop, listening.

Derek learned that day that Stiles blushes all the way up his ears and down his neck, and he has a very impressive range of high notes he could hit before his voice cracks.

But the older man soon learned that Stiles was his most lethal when he wasn't even _trying_. When he relaxed and settled and just... _was_. Like...when he sat with Derek during his lunch breaks, and got caught up in describing the latest book he'd read, hands dancing in front of him and his eyes flashing in excitement. Or when he got a new drink from New Moon Grind and closed his eyes in pleasure at the first sip before innocently holding out to Derek and insisted he try it ("Magic in a _fucking_ cup, Derek! Trust me."). And when he empathized completely after a rude or mean customer left, cussing them out and telling tales of his own retail experiences in an attempt to make Derek smile.

And he did.

And that was _dangerous_.

Derek had not needed to know that Stiles was so compassionate as well as funny, exuberant, intelligent, thoughtful, and more adorable that a puppy that hadn't grown into his paws yet. He didn't. He had enough trouble keeping his feelings in check. Feelings he knew never ended well for him. Feelings that always ended in someone getting hurt. Or worse. And after all of the disastrous relationships behind him, he really wasn't eager to put his heart on the line again. It was scarred up enough, thanks. Besides, Stiles deserved better than a broody store-keep with a past and more issues than his magazine rack.

So Derek played it safe; he kept his thoughts hidden, kept his feelings locked away. He couldn't stop Stiles from coming to the shop, filling it with his laughter and energy that Derek soaked up like a flower in sunlight, or stop him from becoming friends with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac, or even stop himself from talking and smiling and even blushing a few times when the younger man's attention and beautiful golden eyes were focused on him.

But he could stop himself from dreaming about 'what-ifs' and 'maybes'. He could ignore the flutter in his stomach, and the sweat on his palms, and the warmth in his chest.

He could.

He _would_.

He had to.


	4. Days Off

"So when are you gonna ask Stiles out?"

The question, asked so blandly and innocently, had Derek choking on his scone.

It was Sunday, Derek's one day off from anything related to his store. The kids (could he really keep calling them kids? They were, like, twenty-two now.) had insisted when they saw how frazzled and worn down he was getting, bringing his work home with him every day and never taking time away from it. So his Sundays were spent next door instead, at New Moon Grind. The coffee shop was open seven days a week, but unlike The Book Den, Erica, Boyd and Isaac had branched out and hired help. Just a small handful of high schoolers and young adults with too many body modifications for 'respectable work', but it assured that they all got at least two days off a week, with one of them always being there to supervise and manage.

But Sundays it was just the three of them working, since small towns were usually church-going, and the shop stayed quiet, save for the random soccer mom or group of bored kids. So Derek sat with them while they did whatever it was that coffee shop owners did on slow days, trying his best to keep his mind off the paperwork sitting on his desk just next door and just...spending time with his family.

It was nice.

And it was made even nicer by the introduction of Boyd's Baked Goods. Capital letters absolutely necessary.

Boyd had decided, in his infinite wisdom, to give Derek the job of choosing The Treat of the Week, the limited time baked delicacy that would grace the front of the display for seven days before vanishing for an undetermined length of time, after the third time Derek had tried to sneak past him and through the break room to the Den. So, every Sunday, when Derek came to the shop to sit at his little table near the counter, and after Erica had handed him whatever new, ridiculously sweet concoction that she was experimenting with that week (this week it was caramel sugar cookie and Derek could feel his heartbeat fluttering like a hummingbird's), Boyd would bring out a tray of miniature cookies, scones, petite fours, tarts, rolls, muffins, and cakes for him to nibble on throughout the day. And the one Derek liked best would be made in large quantities and sold to the masses.

Today it was a toss up between the orange clove muffin and the rosemary sage scone.

That was currently lodged in Derek's esophagus.

Because Isaac asked a question.

A question that Derek wasn't expecting. Although he knew he should have. The kids always saw more than he thought they would. And stuck their noses in business that really wasn't theirs.

Brats.

He coughed and pounded his chest, refusing to look at the blond as he grabbed his drink and rapidly sipped it. He told himself the burning in his cheeks was from all the coughing and choking, and you could pry that excuse from his cold, dead fingers.

"Why the hell would you even ask that?" he finally rasped, keeping his eyes on his cup, twisting it in his slightly trembling fingers before lifting it to his lips again.

"Because he's cute, loves books as much as you, and thinks you're hot like burning?" Erica supplied from behind the counter.

Derek snorted his drink and started coughing again.

"Will you both stop trying to kill him," Boyd called, deadpan, from the kitchen. "He hasn't told me his favorite for this week yet."

Derek shot a glare towards the back, then ducked his head again.

"C'mon, Derek," Erica cajoled, "We know you like him. And he's made it painfully obvious that he likes you. Why not give it a try? See where it leads?"

Derek just hunched his shoulders and did his best to ignore them.

"Hey," Isaac laid a soft hand on Derek's shoulder. "You know we only want you to be happy, right? After everything you've done for us; getting us out of Beacon Hills, bringing us here, helping us start New Moon...it's no exaggeration when we say we owe you our lives. We just want you to have a good one, too."

Derek swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat as he laid his hand over Isaac's and looked over to where Boyd and Erica were now standing together behind the counter. "I have a good life," he said quietly, "I have the Den, I have my books, and I have you three. Why tempt fate and ask for more?"

Boyd shrugged, "Because we've seen the way you look at him. And the way he looks back."

Derek shook his head again. "I'm not what he needs in his life."

"That's not your choice to make, and you know it."

He did. But he was making it anyways. Stiles was everything bright and cheery and curious and imaginative. All Derek would do is stifle that and smother it until Stiles resented and hated him. Or he'd realize that Derek was broken and not worth the effort of putting back together. Or Derek would push too hard, too fast and Stiles would ghost him and leave him with no closure and an even bigger hole in his heart.

Yeah, it was best not to risk that. Anything but that.

And he was opening his mouth to say so.

When the shop door opened and the trio turned to welcome in...

_Stiles._

"Good afternoon, lady and gents!" he crowed, oblivious to the tension around him as he tripped towards the counter. "Erica, my bestest best of friends, please tell me you still have that absolutely _orgasmic_ thing you made me the other day. With the whipped cream and that buttercream flavor and--Hey, Derek! Hi!"

All Derek could do was wave weakly and stuff the rest of the nearly forgotten scone in his mouth and glare at the table, trying to regroup and not let on that they'd been talking about him.

"Stiles!" Erica gushed, her smile wide and vaguely menacing. "We were just talking about you."

God _damnit_.

"Oh? Little ol' moi? How intriguing!" Stiles struck a frankly ridiculous pose against the counter, but Derek's eyes still couldn't help but be drawn to the delicate length of his arms and torso. "And what, may I ask, was the focus of this discussion? My brilliance? My sparkling personality? My cutting rapier wit?"

"How cute your butt is," Isaac deadpanned. "Right, Derek?"

Derek started choking on his scone again.

And Stiles started laughing.

And Derek forgot all about his discomfort as he watched Stiles' head fall back in his mirth, his shoulders shaking and hands coming up to clutch his chest.

And he was so beautiful. And Derek couldn't breathe. And...

"I have to go," he choked out, shoving himself to his feet so fast that his knees caught the underside of the table, upsetting his drink and the plate of pastries, causing a few of them to fall to the floor, face burning and glasses slipping down his nose. "The-the scone was good. Do that one. And the drink. It-it's...I have to go."

He refused to look at any of them as he ducked his head, shoved his hands in his pockets, and strode for the door with the single-minded drive of someone who's entire world had been shaken.

And it had, he realized, turning a deaf ear to Erica's outrage, Isaac's concern, and especially Stiles' confusion.

He _cared_. For _Stiles_. So much more than he even guessed at.

And he _hated_ it.

He couldn't do this. Not now. Not ever. Not with his history. His secrets. His broken-ness. He'd never inflict that on another person again.

The very thought had him breaking out in a cold sweat as he walked as quickly as was socially acceptable to his front door, his hands shaking and breath grating in his throat as he shoved his key into the lock, shouldered the door open, then promptly collapsed against it, head it his hands.

It'd been a long time since he'd had an attack, he thought, almost clinically, while his body felt like it was shaking apart around him. His cheeks were starting to tingle and his fingers and toes stiffening as he hyperventilated in his front hall, pulse thundering in his ears.

Derek wasn't sure how long he spiraled, think of all the ways that he wasn't nearly good enough for someone as brilliant as Stiles, never in a million years, but when he finally surfaced with a shuddering gasp, he saw that the squares of sunlight had moved across the walls, he was incredibly sore and stiff, and so very, very tired. Stumbling to his feet, he staggered through the halls towards his bedroom, kicking out of his shoes and peeling his clothes away from his clammy skin and contemplated taking a shower, but relinquished the thought as soon as his bed was in sight.

Crawling beneath the covers and turning to clutch a pillow to his chest, he wondered how he was going to explain his behavior to Stiles the next time he came to the shop. 'Hey, sorry for running out like that, but you just looked so amazing that it terrified me and I had to go have a breakdown in my front hall?' Yeah, that'd go over well. Maybe it was time to reaffirm that promise to keep his distance from the young man.

Stiles was just a customer. Nothing more. Nothing less.

It's all he could be.

Closing his eyes, Derek ignored the pain in his heart and resolved to keep that thought at the forefront of his mind come tomorrow.

And any wetness on his face was just sweat from the panic attack.

And Derek slept.

And dreamed of golden eyes and pale, mole-flecked skin.

 

 


	5. Sick Days

The next morning, Derek did something that he hadn't done in the four years he'd taken ownership of The Den.

He called in sick.

He texted Boyd, asking him to put up a sign on the door stating that he was feeling under the weather, asked for patience and understanding, and he'd be back as soon as he was feeling better.

Then he turned his phone off and rolled back over, pulling the blankets over his head and drifting in and out of consciousness for a few more hours.

When he couldn't keep his eyes closed any longer, he turned his phone back on, replied to the fifteen apology texts from Erica and Isaac, thanked Boyd, promised all three of them that he'd see them tomorrow, and replied to a few work emails before his growling stomach forced him out of bed.

Stumbling into a pair of ratty sweats and shoving his glasses up his nose, he made himself some coffee and a bowl of oatmeal with strawberries, blueberries, and little bit of honey, contemplated going for a run, then decided to just sprawl in his favorite spot in the house--the main reason he bought the house, if he's honest with himself--the window seat in his office, staring out at the woods that crept up to the very edge of his backyard. He loved sitting for hours, just watching the forest live and breathe, unknowing or uncaring of the trivial trials of humanity. So long as there was sunlight, water, and a will, the forest and those that lived there would always be there.

Inhaling deeply, drinking in the scents of his coffee, his books, his _home_ , Derek forced out all his tension on the exhale, shoulders dropping from where they had locked near his ears, slouching back fully against the cushions as he tracked the flight of a brilliant red cardinal through the branches shadowing his yard. Taking a small sip from his mug, he let out a small hum of pleasure before releasing a soft sigh and focusing on what had him cloistered in his house like a coward. Or should he say _who_.

Stiles.

Brilliant, vibrant, amazing Stiles. Unfairly handsome and beautifully kissable Stiles. Far too good for him and in general Stiles Stilinski .

Derek was so gone on him, it wasn't even funny. He laughed anyways. A sharp, bitter noise. How very like him; wanting the unattainable.

And he wanted. Desperately.

So badly, it was frightening. Terrifying; how fast he'd fallen for the young man and his humor, his intelligence, his amber eyes and pixie face, his lean body and deceptive strength...

Yep, fallen like a ton of rocks. And just as stupid.

Because what else would explain the speed and depth of how he felt about Stiles, after everything that's happened to him? 

It shouldn't matter that Stiles was physically attractive. Or that he literally helps old ladies across the street. Or reads to little kids, and carries pregnant Mrs. Rollin's groceries, and packs his dad a healthy lunch every single day. Because when you add everything up, Derek is always gonna fall short.

Heaving another sigh, he pushed to his feet and brought his breakfast dishes back to the kitchen to wash later. Right now, he was becoming very aware of the sweat dried in his hair and under his clothes. Running his fingers through his hair, his lip curled slightly in disgust and he made his way back towards his bedroom and attached bath. Shrugging out of his clothes, he closed his eyes so he wouldn't catch an accidental glimpse of himself in the mirrors. Stepping into the shower and then turning on the water, he cursed softly as the cold water needled his skin before slowly warming up.  

Keeping his eyes shut, he stood motionless for a long moment, just letting the water pound over his head and shoulders, drowning out everything in white noise. Then, fighting another sigh, he got himself a handful of shampoo and started divesting himself of the remnants of yesterday's breakdown. As the layers of soap and sweat sluiced off his body, Derek reveled in the feeling of being clean. At least physically. Trying hard to keep his mind from spiraling down that dark path again, he was a bit rougher with himself than was wise as he scrubbed over his arms and legs with a sudsy loofah. The tech at the clinic had told him to wash the treated spots gently, but he needed to remind himself of the changes. The erasure of the past. The loofah stung and pulled at the spots on his body, but he felt a grim satisfaction in the discomfort, a reminder of how far he'd come. Of what he'd willingly and eagerly left behind.

When the water finally started cooling, he heaved another heavy sigh and stepped out of the shower, snagging his towel and struggling to keep his eyes averted from himself. But as the terrycloth started to bring actual pain to certain areas of his skin, he relented to having to inspect them to make sure he didn't do any actual damage. Slipping his slightly foggy glasses on and steeling himself for the sight, he stood in front of his full length mirror and dropped his towel.

Swathes of black, grey, and red met his gaze, making his eyes and heart hurt. Proof of his stupidity and lack of worth for being anything to Stiles.

Doing his best to ignore the large patches of remaining ink, Derek raised his right arm to look at the newest patches of clear skin that the laser removal had revealed, wincing at the redness and irritation his flagellation had caused. He was probably gonna have to go shirtless for the rest of the day and moisturize a few more times than usual. Thankfully, the scabbing had already come and gone, not that he really cared about scarring. But he'd still bring up what he'd done the next time he went in for a treatment. Tracing his fingers around the outer edge of the empty space, he could still see the faint outline of the words that had taken up the hand-sized swatch of flesh along his ribs: _Cry Havoc_.

His eyes slipped to the other gaps in the ink; the removals of the most damning pieces of his past. Most of the remaining marks could be interpreted as merely edgy or personal taste, like the Celtic-style vines climbing up his left hip, or the hyper-realistic wolf head in the center of his chest. But the ones that were already gone were the ones he just couldn't stomach looking at any more than he had to; the words across his ribs, the snake that once curled around his right bicep, the dagger that had sat between his shoulder-blades. Those were long ago removed, but he still felt the needle on bad days, saw the ink bleeding across his skin to consume and drown him in black and red.

Tearing his eyes away, he yanked on some clean boxer briefs and sweatpants with shaky hands. He slicked his still damp hair back from his face, wrinkling his nose as few droplets splashed on his lenses, making his eyes cross slightly. Choosing to ignore them for now, he made his way back to his office and resolutely decided to focus on his work; ordering more inventory, doing payroll, updating the stock lists...whatever he could to center his thoughts and forget the golden flash of eyes, mischievous smirks, and the nauseating smell of black tattoo ink.

 


	6. Days Past

Sweat pooled in Derek's palms as the buzz of the tattoo gun crawled up from his wrist to settle just below his jaw. The pain was minor, but the vibrations were setting his teeth on edge. He didn't say anything, though. This was his first ink as part of the Hunters, the most powerful gang in Beacon Hills, and he couldn't afford to show weakness as the crossbow bolt took shape on his skin. It'd taken him four months of tests and fights to finally be accepted, and another three weeks to earn his bolt. At seventeen, he was one of the youngest to ever do so, and the pride he felt was overshadowed only by the emotions that bubbled up when Kate, the leader's daughter, looked at him and smiled that sly, dirty smile she reserved just for him. She was smiling at him now, straddling a chair on the other side of the room, next to Gerard and the rest of his lieutenants, witnessing his marking.

Kate was the one who...scouted him, for lack of a better term. She knew of the Hales, of course. Everyone did in Beacon Hills; they were one of the largest and most influential families in town. But she had seen _Derek_ , not a Hale. She had seen the way he was struggling with his life; the expectations of his parents, his teachers, his coaches...everything, and offered an open ear. She listened when he talked about how his parents never had time for him now, with his younger sisters and cousins that lived with them in their big house on the Preserve. How he was constantly being compared to his older sister in everything. How his teachers and coaches were pushing him to always do and give more, more more, how he felt like he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything without someone criticizing or condemning or complaining. Kate listened, and she  _cared._

So when she had told him about the Hunters, promising him a family and support in anything and everything he did, promising protection and independence and the chance to be with her all the time, he had leapt at the chance. And she'd been there, after each of his trials, after each of his fights with the initiators, to clean his wounds and praise his strength, and he would have done anything to stay with her, hear her voice and feel her touch.

Anything.

And he had.

School and family became an afterthought compared to his achievements with the Hunters. The buzz of the tattoo gun ceased to bother him. He never got a tattoo in a place that anyone could accidentally see during the few times he actually bothered to show up to class or family dinners. He always did all his homework and chores, to avoid too much scrutiny and the involvement of his parents, but he dropped all his extra curricular activities and spent every free moment he had in Kate's bed. After he graduated, by the skin of his teeth, he became more overt with his tattoos and lifestyle, letting them trail down his arms and legs, and wearing T-shirts and tank tops more often. His parents and sisters voiced more and more concern, but since he was now over eighteen and using his own money, they couldn't really stop him, especially after he moved into a loft apartment that Kate bought for them to use. They drifted further and further until contact stopped altogether. He heard things every now and again, but he didn't really care anymore. The Hunters became everything to him, pleasing Kate and keeping Gerard happy.

For years he was at her beck and call, earning his ink and advancing through the ranks. Celtic vines for his first break-and-enter. A snake for the infiltration and recon of a rival gang. A dagger on his back for rooting out and removing a traitor from the Hunters. ' _Cry Havoc'_ across his ribs for becoming one of Gerard's top enforcers, as a tribute to the leader's favorite quote when turf wars were inevitable: **"Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war."** And Derek was a good dog of war. Ruthless and precise, but never creating a mess that needed outside cleanup. Never killed, but always guaranteed silence. His troops were loyal to him, he was loyal to Kate, and Kate was loyal to Gerard. His life wasn't perfect, by any means, but he had everything Kate had promised him, and then some. 

When Boyd, Erica, and Isaac joined, he felt a connection with them, a similarity in pain; absent and abusive parents, unseen suffering, unheard cries for help. He took them under his wing, taught them everything he knew to help them earn their marks and ranks. Boyd got his own ' _Cry Havoc_ ' as an enforcer, Erica wore her infiltrator snakes as a medusa head on her thigh proudly, and Isaac earned more blood drops for saved lives than any of their other stitchers before him. And as the months and years passed, they became the best troops on his team, the closest family members he had in the group. They quickly became the strongest and most powerful local branch in the Hunters, answering to no one but Kate and Gerard. They were respected and feared, and no longer afraid of anything.

Gerard ran an airtight operation, more business than street gang. There were groups and branches and mangers and team leaders. Some members were trained solely in keeping their police contacts paid and undiscovered. Others were owners and proprietors of the legit businesses that Gerard and Kate owned, supplying them with most of the gang's funds. They had lawyers, surgeons, police chiefs, and even a small handful of business CEOs in their pockets, and each and every one had a small contingency for protection or assassination as needed. As small as Beacon Hills was, Gerard controlled it and almost all of the neighboring towns and cities. It was an empire, albeit localized, for all intents and purposes.

Derek's team was one of the local peacekeeping groups, almost like a normal street gang to the outside observer; keeping the smaller gangs in the dark about the size of the Hunters, keeping up the front of shady and vaguely illegal activities, but nothing worth pouring actual police resources into getting rid of. They recruited, they enforced borders, they ran arms or drugs to the other branches as needed. Almost entirely independent of the supervision of Gerard, and with Kate as a lover instead of strictly an overseer, Derek was often mistaken as a gang leader himself, and didn't really feel the need to dispute the notion so long as it helped him do his job. And with his three best troops with him, they did that job easily.

When he told Kate about them one night as they were tangled up in the sheets of the loft's bed, praising how far they'd come and how far they were gonna go, she got a look in her eyes that concerned him, but she quickly distracted him, and he soon forgot about it under the onslaught of her mouth and hands. It never came up again, but he saw that look more and more often when she came to the loft, or when she watched him with his team during meetings and training. And then things started happening.

It started small, almost innocent. Boyd taking a few more hits than usual during enforcer drills, or being pulled from Derek's team for solo missions that had him coming back bloodied and tight lipped. Erica's contacts cutting her off or straight up going missing, leaving the group in the dark more often than was comfortable. Isaac being forced to use his skills to patch up rival gang members, brought from out of town that had obviously been tortured for information, so that the interrogations could continue. Little things that chipped away at them, making them question and doubt and fear again. And there was nothing Derek could do about it; Kate kept him closer than usual, rarely letting him leave her side, or her bed.

And then she requested he get a tattoo that had no affiliation with the Hunters, but would cement Derek's love and loyalty to her alone. He agreed, of course. Anything for her. So when she handed the design of an anatomically correct heart held in a hand covered in her own tattoos to her personal artist for him to place in the center of Derek's chest, he went happily and eagerly to the chair. Six hours later, a grey-scale heart cupped in a long fingered hand with blood-red nails and knuckle tattoos stood stark and new across his skin. And when Kate smiled at him, that same sly and dirty smile that made him fall for her in the first place, he felt none of the pain.

The whispers started not long after. Rumors and almost accusations against Boyd, Erica, and Isaac. Information leaks, botched turf scuffles, drawing undue attention from the authorities...the list started growing and it didn't stop. Derek tried to step in, but Kate insisted that the kids needed to resolve it themselves, that if they didn't, they might as well be guilty. Derek didn't agree, but every time he tried to argue, Kate would press her hand against the center of his chest, and he'd stand down. He'd dismiss the three when they came to him for help and advice, he'd ignore all the bruises and scrapes that started blooming across their skin over their ink, he'd stay in the loft with Kate during meetings and trainings. Soon, far too soon, they stopped coming to him altogether. He missed them, feared for them, listened to the reports for any news of them. But he never left Kate. Not while her hand was around his heart.

And then word came to him: he was needed at the headquarters for something important and almost unheard of. Someone wanted out. To leave the Hunters entirely. Such a thing hadn't happened in all the time that Derek had been there, but there were stories, rumors. Almost no one survived, and any that did were never, ever the same. It was an incredibly brutal ritual, almost like the initiation fights, but the one who wanted to leave couldn't defend themselves. They had to let anyone and everyone attack them until there was no one else, or they stayed down. Rules were minimal--no weapons, one-on-one only, and a limit of five shots per member. Even so, everyone knew how to inflict massive damage quickly and effectively, Derek had made sure of it. And as leader of the local branch, he was required to bear witness, and to take the last stand against those leaving.

At the warehouse that served as the base of operations, things were already in motion. A ring of all the local members had gathered in the center of the building, voices jeering and shouting and echoing loud in the empty space. Before Derek could make his way to the circle, Kate stopped him with a hand pressed to the center of his chest, nails digging in, her eyes holding a look that made him vaguely nauseous. But he understood her message. As he always did.

When she finally stepped aside, he forced himself to walk calmly towards the barely leashed chaos of the clustered members. He had to shove his way through the throng, everyone so intent on the spectacle that no one really recognized him for who he was, the usual deference he was shown absent in the hunger for violence. When he finally broke through the line of bodies, the shock of what he was seeing almost sent him tumbling back into to the press.

There, already bloodied and swaying on their feet, were his three best troops, his most trusted friends, his _kids_.

Boyd looked at him through eyes that were already swelling shut, and spit a mouthful of blood at his feet. Erica had her teeth bared and and blood matting her blond curls, standing slightly in front of Isaac, who was hunched over and was wearing that awful look in his eyes from the first days of his time with the Hunters, thinking he saw his father in every shadow.

Derek could feel bile rising in his throat as another person stepped forward, a massive thug with too many muscles to be natural and a maniacal gleam in his eyes, cracking his knuckles and grinning maliciously. Derek didn't recognize him from his own groups, and that started warning bells ringing in his mind. These things were supposed to be closed affairs outside of the main group, policed from within. A muttered comment confirmed his fears.

"These guys must have really fucked up. That's Kate's personal guard dog."

"I've heard he's more like her personal stud."

"No shit, dumbass. She has one in every county her dad controls. Check out his arm tat. All of her harem boys have it, the possessive bitch."

"Dude, I hope no one heard you say that."

Derek zeroed in on the guy's left bicep and felt his world start to crumble. There, for everyone to see, was a beautifully rendered grey-scale heart clutched in a long-fingered hand with blood red nails and knuckle tattoos.

Stepping fully into the circle, a hush fell over the crowd as Derek was recognized for who he was. It was a struggle to keep his face impassive and his movements fluid, but he just barely managed it. He cut off the approach of the other man and gave him a flat glare. "You aren't one of mine," he said, just loudly enough to be heard by everyone. "Back off and I'll finish this."

A look of disdain met his words and it looked as if he was gonna take a swing at Derek, until something over his shoulder made him smirk, and step back with a sarcastic salute. Turning around, Derek found Kate standing at the edge of the circle, not even looking at him, but at the three others in the ring, a satisfied smirk on her lips, and a sick gleam in her eye. When her guard dog made his way to her side, she absently reached up to stroke over the ink on his bicep, finally catching Derek's gaze and raising an eyebrow as the other man leaned into her touch.

He felt like his neck was going to snap as he creaked his head forward in a small nod, and then turned his attention to the kids--God they're just _kids_ \--standing bloody in front of him, lest he do something more to endanger their lives. His mind was racing a mile a minute, and dots were connecting themselves with sickening clarity. All the days away from Beacon Hills, the insistence that he stay in the loft, the marks and scents and _skills_ that she always brought back with her.

The swell of the whispers when he showed an interest in anything but her after so long under her thumb. Fuck, he was such an idiot. He was gonna be sick. He was gonna kill her. He was gonna--

No.

These three needed him, now more than ever. He'd already failed them, time and time again, but not this time. Never again. _Never_ again, god damnit!

Stepping up to Erica, he lowered his voice and kept his eyes unfocused on the damage in front of him. "I'm sorry," he whispered, lips barely moving, fists clenched at his sides.

Erica bared her teeth in a bloody, sarcastic smile, "Sure you are. So much for family, huh?"

Derek's eyelids flinched and his throat closed even further. God, there was nothing he could do to rectify this. Nothing to regain the trust that he callously shattered in his pursuit of Kate's affections. Nothing to get rid of the haunted look in Isaac's eyes, the new scars overlaying Erica's tattoos, or the new hardness on Boyd's face. But he had to try. He _had_ to.

Reaching out, he grabbed a handful of Erica's blood matted hair, and pulled her close to his face, painting a snarl on his lips. Tipping his mouth near her ear, he brought up his other hand to grip at her waist, digging his thumb into the bottom of her rib cage. "No matter what," he breathed, "I need you to stay down. Please." He dug his thumb in harder.

He shoved her away, slamming an impassive expression over his face when Isaac whimpered and flinched as Erica crashed into him, making them both stumble and nearly fall. He took a step back and started rolling up the sleeves of his grey Henley, revealing all of the accolades he had earned in his years of service to Gerard and Kate. They used to fill him with such pride whenever he looked at them, but now, with the rapid revelations of the last few minutes, he wanted to dig his nails under his skin and peel every single one of them off.

Well...not _every_ one.

With his sleeves now above his elbows, he brought his hands up in a loose boxer's stance, turning his wrists slightly outward towards the three. The crowd around them faded away as Erica eyed him distrustfully, her own fingers holding the point where his thumb had dug in a few moments ago. Flexing his hands, he saw her glance at his hands and tilt her head in question. Dropping a little lower in his stance, he slowly drew his left hand into the guard position, close to his heart. He watched her face crumple slightly, then harden again, and she nodded minutely.

He nearly crumpled in relief. She understood. She understood and _trusted_ him.

About a year and a half back, after a successfully resolved scuffle that could have ended very badly, the four of them went out for drinks, and in the flush of victory, they all got matching tattoos in different places on their bodies. Something just for them. A sigil from a random website Erica found about magic symbols and crystal bullshit, but they thought it fit. It was mark that represented the sentiment "My family is together and safe." Boyd got it on the inside of his right knee, Isaac the top of his left foot, and Erica at the bottom of her rib cage on the right side.

And Derek got his on the inside of left wrist, opposite the crossbow bolt on the right.

And by pulling it in close to his heart, he was showing was he was going to protect. What he was choosing. _Who_ he was choosing.

Boyd.

Erica.

Isaac.

His troops.

His team.

His _family_.

 He watched as Erica shared a look with Boyd and Isaac, communicating with them in the way they had that had always made Derek kind of jealous. He watched as distrust and hope warred in their eyes before settling on resignation on whatever outcome came to pass. And when they all stood as straight as they could, and looked at him squarely, he struck.

Surging forward, he drove his knee up and into Erica's stomach, folding her forward to deliver an elbow to the back of her neck. He then snaked out a hand to wrap around Isaac's shirt collar and reel him in before slamming him to the ground. Leaving both of them limp, he turned on Boyd and advanced quickly. It took one, two, three punches to his face to convincingly drop him, making Derek wince as he felt Boyd's nose crumple beneath his fist. He straightened slowly, projecting nonchalance as the crowd roared around him. Examining his knuckles, he waited until the cheers died down, then addressed his group.

"Drop them at the hospital," he said. "Then start moving operations to one of the other warehouses. Pick a random one. They want out, they can be out. Completely. Leave no trails for them to follow if they have a sudden change of heart. I have no use for such blatant disobedience. And boys," he pinned the members picking up the unconscious three, "don't add to their injuries. They less there is to explain, the better. Clear?"

A chorus of 'yes sirs' answered him, and he turned away again.

To come face to face with Kate.

Who was looking at him with that gleam that used to make him weak in the knees with lust. Now all he wanted to was beat her face to a bloody pulp. 

But he smirked and accepted her kiss, suppressing a shudder of revulsion as her tongue plunged into his mouth and her hands grappled with his belt. Snagging her hands, he gentled the kiss and pulled away much slower than he wanted to, ignoring her pout.

"As much as I'd love to, and I'd really love to," he lied through his teeth, "I have to oversee the breakdown of the warehouse. Too many important things to just leave in the hands of the troops. Rain check? Tomorrow?"

Kate smiled that sly, dirty little smile and purred her agreement, before turning away and heading towards the exit, where her personal guard was waiting. With the same glint in his eyes as hers. Hopefully, they'd keep each other busy for the next long while. He turned sharply on his heel and headed for the office on the upper level.

He had work to do.

Derek spent the next several hours erasing every trace of Boyd, Erica, and Isaac from every system he could think of, as well as discreetly gathering as many loose funds as he could. He knew that he, himself, was too integrated into too many aspects of the Hunters, as well as on the radar of Kate and Gerard themselves, but those three, for all their accomplishments, were relatively unknown outside of Beacon Hills itself. They had a chance. And he'd make sure they'd get it, even if it cost him everything.

Maybe it already had.

The Hales moved out of Beacon Hills a few years back, heading for New York, or something. His mother had tried one last time to reach out to him, actually finding and coming to the loft, but, as usual, he ignored her. His heart screamed at him now as he remembered how callous and dismissive he'd been of her and her worries for him. But he also remembered her saying that she'd set up trust fund for him, safeguarded against being used to fund the Hunters, of course, in the hopes that someday he would come to his senses and might need a way back to them. All the information for it was left with the family's personal banker. He'd have to stop for that info on his way to the hospital. But for now, he kept his focus on turning his current family into ghosts.

Another handful of hours passed, and the sun was low in the sky when Derek had done all he could. He had nowhere near the skill that the Hunter's hackers did, but he was confident that his efforts would buy them at least a few days. No one outside of the Hunters would care about the kids, that was already established, and they weren't high ranking enough to warrant more than a half-assed search. He hoped so, anyways. He kept that hope in his mind as he packed up everything he'd gathered for their travels. It wasn't ideal to make them leave so soon after such a beating, but he didn't trust Kate or Gerard not to tie up convenient loose ends. So he piled everything into his car, stopped off at the bank for the information on his trustfund, doubled back, took roundabout routes, checked his mirrors compulsively, then finally made his way to the hospital.

As the leader of group of individuals that couldn't afford to remain in official custody for long, Derek had long ago devised many ways in and out of the hospital undetected, as well as figuring out where his people were being treated. He utilized those ways now, slinking through the halls, lifting files until he found the ones he needed, then made his way to the necessary rooms. He found Boyd's room first. The sight that greeted as he opened the door him broke his heart.

The man laying in the hospital bed bore almost no resemblance to the kid Derek knew. His face was a mass of bruising and bandages, his breathing reedy and strained as he struggled to get air through a broken nose. His dark skin stood stark against the pale scrubs and white sheets, and he looked so much smaller than he was. Derek crept to his bedside and gently curled his hand over Boyd's, startling slightly when the other's eyes opened and pierced into his.

"I'm so sorry," Derek choked out, throat tight and eyes burning. "I can't even begin to tell you--"

"Shuddup," Boyd slurred, voice nasally and clogged. "Yer here. Tha's all tha' madders. Hel' me ub."

A laugh strangled itself in Derek's throat as he carefully helped Boyd into a seated position.

"Wha's the plan?" he said as he settled back, eyes swollen but alert.

"I was able to erase you from the Hunters to the best of my ability," Derek explained, seeing no point in beating around the bush. "I have a duffel of cash, as much unmarked as I could find, as well as a few of the unused IDs some of the city Hunters left behind. Once nurse rotation starts, I'll get you guys out of here, grab some essentials and a vehicle, and help you to the state border. Then it's up to you guys."

"Yer nod coming?"

Derek shook his head, "I can't. I'm too well known, by everyone here as well as Gerard himself. Not to mention I'm one of Kate's little harem boys." He spit her name like poison, hand curling over his chest where her mark branded him. "She's not gonna let me go any time soon. Not when she's had me since I was seventeen."

"We're not leaving without you."

Both their heads whipped towards the door as a third voice piped up, Boyd punctuating his sudden movement with a groan. Erica stood in the doorway, hair now clean and soft around her face, which made the split lip and bruises all the more stark on her face. But she stood on her own, arm wrapped around her middle, probably cradling some cracked ribs.

Derek sighed and straightened from Boyd's side, "Erica, you know I can't--"

"Shut up," she snapped, making Derek share an amused look with Boyd. "We get it, alright? Even as it was happening, we knew. Kate didn't like us. She never did. We meant too much to you. Took your attention away from her. She's the one that started all of the bullshit against us. The rumors, the more dangerous work, the collapse of our systems. It was her. We tried to tell you, but she'd been a part of your life a lot longer than us. We understood that. We kind of hated you for it, but we understood. But we weren't family anymore. And we wanted out."

Derek felt his eyes burning again. He moved towards Erica, but she held up a hand and continued.

"We suspected that Kate would try and rig the fight, that she might truly try to get rid of us completely, but we had to take our chances. Isaac shot us up with as many painkillers as was safe, and we took our dues. Everything was going surprisingly well, truth be told. We were all still standing, only a few injuries. But they kept coming, and the meds were wearing off. And we realized; it wasn't a trial by fire, like it was supposed to be. It was a lynching. There were people in that crowd taking shots that had never even met us, had no stake in us leaving. They really did want to kill us.

"But we stayed on our feet. We refused. Even when Isaac started flashing back, even when Boyd got his knee dislocated--"

Derek shot Boyd an appalled look, but was shrugged off.

"--even when I got concussed. Because we. Were. Family. And none of us were getting left behind." Tears were now slipping down Erica's cheeks, angry, silent things that burned Derek's soul like acid. "And then you showed up. With your sex hair and your hickies. And you looked so shocked to see us on trial. Really, Derek? Shocked? After everything we had tried to tell you was happening, you had the _gall_ to look shocked?"

"I didn't mean to--"

"Shut! Up!," they all winced at her outburst, both at the volume and in pain, literal and sympathetic. She shot a quick glance out into the hall, then stepped more fully inside the room, closing the door behind her. "Just...shut the fuck up," she growed. "You show up, you look shocked, and then something...something opened your eyes. I watched it happen. Something clicked and you saw what was happening. What was _really_ happening. You stopped Kate's thug. You saw her for what she was, and is. And you chose us. You saved us. You're still saving us," she shifted her fingers to brush against her lower right rib. "And we may not be safe right now, but we're together, and that sure as fuck isn't changing any time soon. We'll run as far and as fast as we have to, but you are not staying here. Am I _fucking_ clear, Derek Hale?"

For a long moment, Derek could only stare at Erica as she panted for breath, eyes daring him to refute her, tears still falling. Then he dropped his head and let out a helpless chuckle. "You know," he said with a sardonic grin, "there was a time, not so long ago, that I was the one in charge."

"Fuck you," she hiccuped, smiling a wet smile as she finally allowed him to fold her into a gentle hug.

"Gread. Now tha' tha's oud ob tha way, subb-one go ged Isaac so we can ged oud ob here."

Both Derek and Erica stifled a laugh, and she left to go get Isaac as instructed. Not long after, they were all piled in the Camaro and headed out of town, eyes on the future.

Two weeks, three vehicle swaps and a brief, nail-biting chase later, they found themselves somewhere in south Utah, with Derek in another tattoo parlor, another gun to his chest, and a lifetime of memories to erase. But for now, this would do.

 

 _Oh yes_ , he thought as he watched the grey-scale heart held in a hand with blood red nails and knuckle tattoos disappear beneath a black wolf's head with burning blue eyes, _this would do quite well. For now._

 


	7. Bad Days

The next morning found Derek, feeling no better but resigned to his melancholia, behind the front desk of The Book Den, fingers clutched around a large Red-Eye and customer service smile hanging by a thread. It had honestly been a quiet and uneventful morning, but he could only take so many well-meaning grandmothers and great aunts calling in and giving him advice on tending a cold or breaking a fever or (from dear old Mr. Mumfus) how to 'reign in unruly bowels'. Nightmares of Beacon Hills had plagued his sleep, and the raw spots on his body were still sore and chafed beneath his clothes. He'd missed his alarm and had to skip his run and breakfast to make it in time to even open the shop's doors, and he would be forever grateful to Boyd for stopping over to deliver his coffee and a sympathetic shoulder pat. He was tired, he was hungry, and it was now raining. It seemed fitting, but it also promised a slow day, and Derek couldn't help but be a little bit grateful.

Casting a quick glance around the stacks and finding them empty, he chanced taking a bite of one of the blueberry-banana-cranberry-Lucky Charms muffins that Mrs. Gentrus's six-year-old daughter had insisted on bringing him after hearing he'd been sick (she 'makeded' them herself, you know.) Finding the taste not unpleasant, he set himself to the task of consuming it as quickly as possible, lest the phone ring or door open while his cheeks were stuffed like a chipmunks, chasing it with sips of his now tepid caffeine delivery drink. He quickly finished one and started on another, feeling a warmth in his chest from the thoughtfulness of his neighbors. Regardless of where he'd come from, what he'd done, he had a community now. A family. A home. It didn't matter that he wore nothing but long sleeves, and sometimes flinched at sudden movements or loud noises. Mr. Gerico, a veteran of Vietnam, merely nodded sagely and spoke a few soft words in the right ears, and it became a quickly ignored quirk.

Halfway through his second muffin, the front door slammed open, the bell actually coming loose this time and rolling across the floor. Derek, struggled not to cough and choke on the pastry as a soaking wet body quickly made it's way to the back of the store, cursing and muttering as they went. Before they fully ducked out of sight in the stacks, Derek caught a glimpse of slender, pale arms, dripping brown hair, and a flash of red on a split lip.

_Stiles_

Chugging his coffee to clear his throat, Derek skirted around the desk, intent on following the boy, but was distracted by movement outside. Somebody was pacing the streets, looking for something, regardless of the rain. Some _one._ Derek flipped his sign and threw the lock, not liking the look of anger on the stranger's face. A familiar look that he'd seen in the mirror more often than he would like to remember. A desire to inflict pain on another body, regardless of consequence or if it was deserved. He ducked back away from the door before he could be spotted; the man didn't look like he would respect a sign or lock if he thought his prey was behind Derek's door. And didn't it just sicken him to think of Stile's as prey; something to be hunted down and hurt, for whatever reason. He had to restrain himself from doing a little hunting of his own, turning away from the windows and slowly making his way through the shelves, following the dark water spots on the carpet.

A voice was murmuring from the back of the store: quiet, angry, and a little bit sad. As Derek got closer, the tone cleared up into actual words; Stiles was on the phone, most likely with his father. He turned down the last aisle to see Stiles slumped against the back wall, knees to his chest, forehead pressed to his knees and phone at his ear.

"...I know it was stupid, Dad, but if you could hear the shit he was saying--I couldn't help it! He'd just put her in the hospital and was bragging about it one second, then complaining that she wouldn't be out in time to make him dinner. Dinner, Dad! I don't give a damn who he is! ...That's why I recorded the whole thing before I got punched. And kicked. And I think he bit me, too. Yeah, I'll send you the video. Lock him up forever, Dad. Please? His own mom...I can't--I just-- _ugh._...Yeah, I love you, too, Dad. I'm alright, I promise. Somewhere safe. Let me know why you arrest the bastard. I want pictures. He should be somewhere either on or around Gamling Street. Because that's where I ran. Yes, that's the street with the coffee shop and the bookstore with Hot Glasses Guy. I told you his name was-- _Derek_!"

The last word was spoken as a high pitched squeak as Stiles finally looked up and realized that Derek was standing not far from him and watching. Stuttering out a quick goodbye into the phone, he staggered to his feet, only to stumble, making Derek lurch forward and catch his arm before he toppled over.

"Heeey, Derek," Stiles attempted to smile, the effort ending in a grimace as the action tugging on his split lip, looking everywhere but at the other man, "sorry for dripping all over your store and stuff. I promise I won't be here long, just until my dad can pick up Tall, Mean, and Punchy out there. You saw him, right? None of that steroid muscle is for show, let me tell you. Right hook like a Mac Truck. But he's a total shitheel, so I don't feel the least bit bad for kicking him in the nuts and running. Though I probably shouldn't have run in here, huh? What with the coffee shop thing the other day and...sorry, about that, too, by the way. So if you could just...let go of my arm, I'll be quiet and invisible back here, you won't even know I'm here and then I'll be out of your hair forever and ever and--"

"Stiles," Derek interrupted sharply, making the other flinch. He felt guilt twist in his gut, and he gentled his touch and voice. "Stiles," he said again. "Relax. Please. I'm not upset or uncomfortable. I owe you an apology and an explanation. But first, I want to get you cleaned up. Just...sit back down, and I'll be right back, okay. Don't...don't leave," he couldn't help but ask, feeling almost desperate to fix what he'd broken with Stiles. Only after Stiles had nodded his assent did Derek release his arm and hurry towards the breakroom, still scared that the other would leave anyways, never to come back. The thought hurt Derek more than he thought it would. Scooping up a handful of dry dish towels and the first-aid kit, he waved off Isaac's concerned gaze, promising to explain later, before nearly running back to wear Stiles was once again tucked against the shelves, head leaned back and eyes closed.

Setting down the first-aid kit with a soft _clack,_ Derek gently settled one of the towels over Stiles' dripping hair, before popping open the kit's lid and pulling out an alcohol wipe and starting to dab at the blood crusted around the split lip. Stiles flinched slightly, but didn't open his eyes. Derek stayed silent as he worked, unwilling to break the tenuous moment between them. When all the blood was gone, Derek dabbed it with ointment and moved on, activating the reusable cold compress and pressing it into Stiles' hands. "Wherever the bruising is worst," he whispered, looking away as Stiles tucked it under his shirt against his ribs. He shook out a packet of ibuprofen, which Stiles took and swallowed dry with a slight wince.

Derek couldn't think of anything else to do without actually trying to dry Stiles' hair for him, since he'd made no move to utilize the towel on his head, just let it sit there, covering his eyes and ears. At a loss, he just sat back against the opposite shelf and stared at the ground between them, the rain on the roof a constant thrum above their heads. The silence stretched and stretched, tense and fragile as shivering crystal, until it was shattered by Stiles, making Derek jump.

"I never told you how I'm able to afford so many first editons and out of prints, did I?"

He still hadn't opened his eyes, so Derek, made a soft noise to indicate he was listening.

"Well, not many people know it, but me and my dad have more money than we know what to do with," Stiles' voice was flat, but so very sharp with something that made Derek's heart twist in his chest. He wanted to tell Stiles to stop, to be quiet. But he merely listened, growing colder with each word.

"Big court case against a hospital. Open and shut case. Irrefutable evidence, thanks to me. Millions of dollars won. Pretty awesome, right? Never have to work again, party every night. That's what the lawyers said, anyways." He took a shaky breath, but still didn't move. "My mom was really sick. Cranial stuff. Brain stuff. But treatable, if caught early enough. We thought we caught it early enough. That's what our doctor said when she sent us to a specialist. The specialist said she was misdiagnosed. That it was something untreatable and that they could only make her comfortable. And for a while, we bought it. But, you see, I am an incredibly curious guy. Always have been. And it was my mom. I couldn't just sit back and do nothing. So I did what I do best; I studied. Everything I could get my hands on about her condition; medical journals, graduate papers, websites, reached out to other people that had the same illness, sifted through tons of bullshit to find the truth. Practically became an expert overnight.

"And that's when I started noticing. Just little things; unfamiliar medication names that didn't line up with the usual regiment that came with the illness, unusual symptoms unseen in any other cases recorded...thought it might have been an experimental treatment, new enough to not be well-known. Started reading up on all of those things, too. Just to see if I could help, as kids do, y'know. But nothing was adding up, and Mom was getting sicker and sicker. So I went straight to the doctors. Started asking questions. Questions they refused to answer. Questions that made them angry, and nervous. Me, a sixteen year old kid, making doctors angry and nervous. Nothing new, mind you, but I just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

"Then she died," his voice was expressionless now, colorless and toneless, automaton-like. "The nurse on call said it was sudden and unexpected, a shock to everyone. That's when I knew. I knew they did something to her, and my meddling made them scared enough to kill her. I took everything I had researched and studied and collected and went to another hospital a state over, more or less conned my way in to see the head neurologist, and demanded to know what had happened. Apparently, mixing Mom's condition and the cocktail of drugs they had her on creates a pretty convincing case of front-temporal dementia. The doctors at the other hospital were trying to write a paper on the condition, but didn't have anyone to study. So they made their own patient. Aggravated the problem she already had, something that would have been fixed with a single surgery, until she became what they needed her to be, then killing her when I asked too many questions.

"The judge and lawyers in the case told me that my research was instrumental in winning the case. The doctors went to jail, the hospital is under scrutiny for the next billion years, we were awarded 20 million in reparations, my dad crawled into a bottle, and my mom was still dead."

Derek could hardly breathe for the pain in his chest, his heart bleeding for Stiles, and everything he'd endured. Moving slowly, he crawled across the aisle to settle stiffly by the other man's side, shoulder's barely brushing, trying to offer what pitiable comfort he could.

"It took me three years of guilt and threats to get Dad clean," Stiles continued, "another six months to get him working again. But he just turned his job into his new addiction. Double, triple shifts, taking all the dangerous calls, not eating, not sleeping...I didn't know what to do. So I turned to the bottle. Definitely not my proudest time. I was worse than even Dad had been. Not a sober moment for three months. And then I got pulled over for drunk driving. By Dad. It was a turning point for both of us. He cut his shifts, I stopped drinking. But it wasn't enough. We were still drowning. So I went to his superiors, made them process the transfer, sold the house I grew up in, and moved out here. And then, today, Mayor Mahoney's kid was bragging to his friends about pushing his own mom down the stairs when she unplugged his fucking computer while he was playing. I recorded the whole thing, called him all sorts of mean things, got punched, kicked, and bit, kicked back, ran, and here I am. So...yeah. But, hey, not really worried about getting sued because I'm totally rich. Cool, huh?" His voice finally broke on the last word, and tears were pouring out from underneath the towel.

Derek didn't even think, just reached his arms around shaking shoulders and pulled Stiles' face into the crook of his neck, his own eyes burning as the young man sobbed against him.

They sat like that for long minutes, the rain still pounding overhead.

Finally, Stiles took a long, shaky breath, and tried to sit up, "I got my snot and issues all over you," he mumbled wetly, "I should go before I do something really embarrassing."

Derek tightened his arm for a second, then released him, putting a hand on his arm instead when Stiles made to get up. Taking a deep breath of his own, he nudged his sleeve up just enough to show the little crossbow bolt on his wrist, ignoring how Stiles' eyes widened at the ink swirling all across his wrist.

"Her name was Kate..."


End file.
